And then the magnification blurs and blurs, until at last the snowflakes morph into stars in a winter sky, cold yet twinkling, a poetic image from long ago.
And then he’s floating above an urban landscape. There are some things that look familiar: the winding downhill avenue, a graceful glass arch over the street in the distance. It all looks familiar—and cold.
And frightening.
He seizes up, and he’s not sure where the fear comes from. But it grips him, like an icy hand, squeezing tighter, tighter, until he can barely breathe.
A fist comes toward his face, on each finger a tattooed letter spelling out the word HATE.
The white shifts in an almost wavy, gauzy movement. The stars, the snowflakes vanish, and now there’s red. Just a cascade of crimson blood.
* * * *